The Man Upstairs
by Speakfire
Summary: Sugar's old apartment is newly occupied, and as the saying goes, "Good neighbors make good fences." Or something along those lines, anyway.
1. Of Drug Dealers and Dangerous Men

Disclaimer: I do not own Burn Notice or any of its characters. This story is for entertainment only, and I'm not making a profit.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Of Drug Dealers and Other Dangerous Men**

The landlord did not look happy when he came out of the nightclub and saw my mom and I moving into the new apartment. Still, even though his name was even worse than mine (and seriously, what mother would be cruel enough to name their baby Oleg, even in Russia?), he didn't have any tattoos that I could see. That proved, according to a conversation I'd listened in on between some boys at the next lunch table over, that he had never done time in a Russian prison and so probably wasn't a member of the Russian Mafia. He certainly didn't look like one, with his creme-colored denim jacket and cowboy boots.

"You are moving in well, yes?" he asked, looking between Mom and I, his brows drawn together in a frown. "Sveta did not say you have family moving in with you when we talk yesterday."

My mother flushed, resting her box on the hood of the car, and I suddenly got the impression that if Mom and Sveta, Oleg's sister, hadn't mentioned me to our new landlord, it wasn't by accident. "I'm sorry, this is my daughter, Roxanne. Roxy, this is Mr. Shkelev."

"Hello, Mr. Sch…" I stumbled over the unfamiliar name and tried a second time. "Mr. Skelev?"

The man gave me a quick nod and smile in return, saying, "Oleg, please. Is simpler." He hesitated and sighed, raising his hands slightly. "Look, Allison…Mrs. Jacobs…"

"Mr. Shkelev," Mom broke in and pushed her box up further on the hood of the car. She rubbed her palms on her shorts, admitting, "Sveta sort of hinted that I shouldn't bring Roxanne's name up if I could avoid it because she said you probably wouldn't rent the apartment to us if I did. I shouldn't have listened to her. I know I still should have told you about Roxanne and I'm really very very sorry."

"Sveta…." Oleg closed his eyes, saying something under his breath in Russian for a few moments. Then he said to Mom, "Is nothing personal, you understand?"

"It is to us," I muttered, shifting from one foot to the next. It was bad enough that we were moving at all, and that it be a dump like this, where yet another landlord didn't even want us made it about ten times worse.

"Roxanne," my mother said sharply, giving me The Look before she turned back to Oleg. "Look, it was wrong for me to let you think that it was just me moving in, and I can't apologize enough for that, but please…" Her voice faltered and I could tell from the way it sounded that she was on the verge of crying—I'd heard that same hitch in her voice more times this past year than I cared to remember. She went on in a lower voice, "I've already turned in my key at the old place, and we didn't have the money to stay there another month anyway with the rent increase… we don't have anywhere else to go. Please. I promise you, she won't be any trouble at all, I swear." The pleading sound in her voice was almost embarrassing to hear, and I scuffed at the ground with the toe of my shoe.

"No, no, is not that I think you are trouble for me." Oleg shook his head, sighing, "I worry for trouble for you. We have trouble here in past, Sveta tell you this?"

Mom glanced quickly at me, before she said, "She told me about the drug dealer who used to live here, and about the gas pipe explosion in the upstairs apartment a couple of years ago, if that's what you meant?"

I blinked at that. "Wait, a drug dealer used to live in our apartment? And the place above us blew up?" This was the kind of information that was scary and exciting at the same time. Mostly exciting, I decided after a moment's consideration, cause the alternative was, well, pretty scary.

The Russian made a noise that sounded somewhere between a cough and a laugh, his eyes darting around. "Ha-ha yes, yes, gas leak. I almost forget this."

How the heck could anyone forget a gas leak that caused an explosion? "Was anyone hurt?" I asked with morbid curiosity, peering at the upstairs apartment. I didn't see any scorch marks or anything around the windows or door, so maybe it didn't do a lot of real damage.

"Nothing bad. Scratch here, bruise there. But then we repair and paint—is all better now, see? Good as new." Oleg's broad smile faded quickly from his face when he spoke again. "Mrs. Rogers, I… you understand this situation, yes? My club all night is boom-boom-boom with loud noise, every night. Is very hard for sleeping. And then the people who are coming here sometimes, to club, most not cause any problems, but some do. I don't want cause trouble for you." He paused, glancing from me to my mother to, strangely, the apartment upstairs, before saying in a quieter voice, "I worry, you see? I say I let you stay here but please… this place—this apartment—is not good place for family."

Mom bit her lip and told him again, "We don't have anywhere else to go."

I examined the toe of my shoe.

Our landlord said very distinctly, "B'lyad!" I had no clue what it meant, but was pretty certain that if I ever said it out loud and in English, I'd probably be grounded until I was thirty. Oleg sighed with something like defeat, saying, "You have my number, yes? You have any problem, you call." He seemed on the verge of adding something but shook his head and turned on his boot heel, walking away.

"We will," my mother said, and together we watched him go back into his club, before we went back to moving into our new apartment.

One of the few advantages of moving eight times in seven years is that you tend to be a lot more selective about the things you feel are worth keeping. "When in doubt, throw out," is what Mom says both before and after each move. Moving into furnished apartments makes things even easier. I've gotten to the point where I can fit the entire contents of my bedroom room (well, not including my clothes) into one large box and a backpack. Of course, it helps that, unlike most girls my age, I'm not dragging around an enormous collection of stuffed animals, Barbie dolls, Beanie Babies, or Breyer horse figurines. I've found that my stamp collection is far more portable—a large binder does the trick. Just don't tell anyone below the age of thirty about it, because they'll think you're lame.

By two pm, I'd had enough of unpacking boxes. Mom had just left to go grocery shopping, and I was bored. So I went out into the courtyard and started bouncing a tennis ball off the metal plating that was on our front door. Each time the ball hit, it made a surprisingly loud metallic 'thwang' sound. I'd tried bouncing it off the walls on either side of the door but the quiet 'pop' of the ball hitting the stucco wasn't nearly as satisfying.

I heard the rumble of a car's engine turning in and turned to watch as a black car slowly pulled into the courtyard. It was one of those old cars from way before I was born that looked like it came right off the cover of Hot Rod magazine. Sleek and shiny, it was very cool looking. The owner? Not so much.

The man stared at me over the steering wheel as he shut off the car and then opened the door to climb out. He was tall and kind of skinny, with spiky black hair, tan pants and a green shirt with a popped up collar. And by green, I don't mean mint green, or forest green-I mean more along the lines of Crayola crayon green. Or maybe mile-marker green. To top it off, he had some serious gold bling around his neck and on his wrist.

I went back to looking at the car. It hurt less.

Oleg and Mom had both mentioned a drug dealer that lived here, but I'd gotten the impression that he wasn't around any more. It'd explain where he got the money for the car—though you'd think he'd be able to afford better clothes at least. Still, as my friend Megan says, "Just cause someone has money, that don't mean they have taste." Then again, if he had money, that didn't explain why he was living here instead of someplace nicer, like say Key Biscayne. Maybe they'd run him out because of his taste in fashion, though.

Peeking at him again, I changed my mind about him being the drug dealer. I knew of at least three people at our old apartment complex who were rumored to be dealers, and none of them dressed like this. They'd stick out like a sore thumb when the cops came around. Hoodies and saggy jeans were more along their line.

So he was just some guy with tacky taste. Mile-marker man looked around and then back at me. "Are you waiting for someone?"

I squinted at him, hoping it'd help block some of the glare from his shirt. No such luck. "Kind of," I answered vaguely. I wasn't _really_ waiting for her, but Mom would be back from the store soon. Gesturing toward his car with my tennis ball, I asked, "You're not going to leave that parked right there, are you?"

His eyebrows drew downward at the question and he frowned. "I live here."

"So do I," I replied, tossing the ball from one hand to the other.

"Realllly," he said with a broad smile, one big and unexpected enough that I wasn't really sure if it was real or fake.

Even so, I smiled back without thinking about it. He really had a very nice smile, and now that my attention was drawn to his face and not that preschool primary green shirt, I saw that he had bluish grey eyes. He actually was quite handsome, for an older guy. "Yes, Mom and I moved in this morning," I found myself saying.

"This morning?" He glanced around the courtyard again and back at me. "And you're already finished?"

"Yeah, well, we don't really have a lot of stuff to move," I shrugged, feeling kind of embarrassed by the fact that we didn't own a lot of things. And the things we did own were more about being useful than being nice things. I bounced my tennis ball off the door a couple of times.

"That's not necessarily a bad thing. I'm in favor of anything that makes moving easier," he said.

I thought he might just be saying that to be polite, but when I looked at him, he seemed pretty sincere about it. Over his shoulder, I saw Oleg coming around the edge of the gate.

"Westen," the landlord called, somehow managing to make the name sound like it started with both a V and a W.

That big smile reappeared on the man's face, and seeing it a second time, I was definitely starting to think that it was more fake than real. It was still a nice smile, though. "Oleg. I was just saying 'Hi' to my new neighbor," he said, turning toward the Russian.

Oleg cleared his throat, glancing at me and giving me a brief nod of greeting. "I try to call you, but I think maybe you have problem with phone? No one answers."

Westen tilted his head a touch and grinned, "Well, you know what kind of luck I typically have with cell phones. I had to get a new one."

Darting a quick look at me, Oleg started talking again, but in Russian this time.

I didn't understand a word he was saying, but this Westen guy did, because he held up his hand and then asked something in the same language. Oleg spoke for a few moments in response, and I am pretty sure from how he gestured at our new apartment now and again that he was explaining the circumstances of my mom and I moving in. That seemed really weird to me, because I was positive that Oleg owned the club and the property. I remember Mom being very specific about that when she told me we were moving. So why would the landlord have to explain anything to a guy who was just another renter, like us?

I eyed the Crayon man again very carefully from under my eyelashes. Yes, he still had tacky taste in fashion, but now I saw that he was more lean than skinny, and while his arms didn't bulge grossly with muscles like some body-builder's, he worked out on a regular basis. No tattoos that I could see (again, ruling out the Russian Mafia theory despite his apparent fluency in the language) but he had scars here and there, on his forehead and especially on the side of his right eye, like he'd been in quite a few fights.

Daring to examine at his green shirt again, I noticed for the first time that it had a pair of white pinstripes stretching horizontally around his chest. I studied them for a moment with a frown, trying to decide whether or not it made the shirt look better or worse. Could anything really improve on such an ugly get up?

The man ducked his chin, looking down at his chest as well. "Have I got something on my shirt?"

I flushed when I realized I'd been caught staring, I shook my head from side to side. "No, no, it's just... green. Really, really green." I couldn't quite stop myself from curling my lip.

He knitted his brows together and said almost defensively, "These are my work clothes."

"I'd quit," I stated without thinking.

Oleg grinned at that and told him, "Hopefully this job, it ends soon. I agree with girl, this not such good color for you, I think." His smile faded a little and he spoke a few more words in Russian.

Westen gave me a hard stare, like it was my fault that he was wearing such an ugly shirt, and then sighed and nodded to whatever Oleg was saying with something like resignation. "Da," he said. "I'll tell Sam and Fi."

The landlord looked at me and then at our front door. "Your mother is not home?"

"She had to run to the store, she should be back any time now," I explained and then looked pointedly at the large black car in the courtyard. "Of course it'll be quite a long walk carrying the groceries in from the street…."

The tall man smiled that definitely fake smile again and was on the verge of saying something when a cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket, glanced at the face and grimaced when he saw who was calling. "Why don't I park my car on the street where it won't be in anyone's way?" he said dryly, and then flipped open his phone to answer it. "Hi, Mom…. Ha, well, I had a little accident with the old phone while I was on a job, I had to get a new one. Let me guess, Fi gave you the number?"

Oleg and I watched as he walked toward his car and got in, started it up and backed out the gate. He must have changed his mind about parking because he suddenly slammed the car into drive and burned about twenty feet of rubber roaring off down the street.

The Russian man looked at me and smiled awkwardly. "You move in good? Everything is good?"

"Oh yeah, just peachy," I replied, wondering what the heck had just happened with our neighbor. He hadn't seemed all that upset about us moving in. Surprised, yes, and even mildly annoyed, but not as angry as his departure indicated. "Oleg, can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, yes, of course. What is it?"

"You and mom were talking about a problem with a drug dealer, right? That wasn't him, was it?" I asked worriedly.

He blinked and then laughed in my face. "Drug dealer? No no, he is not drug dealer. Is true, one lived here yes, but he is gone now. He was, ah, how you say? Persuaded to leave?" He waggled his eyebrows, giving the impression that there was a significant portion of the 'persuading' part he was leaving out.

Even so, I breathed a sigh of relief, "Ok, good. So this Westen guy has got some bizarre taste in clothing and he's a little bit strange, but he's not dangerous."

Oleg got a really strange look on his face, raising his hand to rub the back of his neck nervously. "Ha-ha. Michael Westen is good man. Very good man. But dangerous? No no, not so dangerous, not for_ you_." He gave me a very reassuring smile, and he probably hadn't meant to do it, but he put the barest emphasis on the word 'you'.

I stared at him for a moment, repeating his words to myself, and then I asked slowly, "What do you mean, 'not for _you'? _You mean like, you, like my mom and I? He's not dangerous to us in particular, but he _is _dangerous for some people? Is that what you meant?"

He gaped for a moment and then waved his hands, already edging away from me and toward the club before I could ask any more questions. "Ah, my English, sometimes is not so good. I think I say words wrong. I go back to club now. Many things doing for tonight."

He was lying like a rug. I knew it, and so did he, but I also knew there was no way I'd be able to get anything more out of him on the subject of Michael Westen, unless I found it out for myself.

That was all right. School didn't start for another two weeks, and it wasn't like I had anything better to do.

* * *

Author's Notes: A couple of notes. The outfit Michael is wearing when he meets Roxanne can be seen in episode 'Fearless Leader' from Season 3 Episode 4 (Thanks to Woodnote for noticing my mental blooper and helping me correct it), but the events that take place in this chapter deliberately are not linked to any particular episode or season. Thanks to Marwolv for the beta-ing and Sicarius for the help with talking like a Russian when writing in English. I'd been toying around with this story idea for a while. I knew I wanted it from the POV of someone who moved in downstairs from Michael, but the how and who of it was more difficult. I hope you enjoy the end result, and please review! I feed on them like they are yummy doublestuf oreos.


	2. Of Breaking Rules and Bobby Pins

A/N Thanks to everyone for all the wonderful reviews. This chapter took a little longer than expected to get written, largely because an utterly insane Labor Day weekend and 2 impromptu road trips. Thanks to AStrangeVictory, Sicarius, and Marwolv for the beta readings and input. This chapter ended up being about 2000 words longer than I had anticipated. Who knew?

* * *

**Chapter 2: Of Breaking Rules and Bobby Pins**

"I met the guy who lives upstairs," I said to my mom over supper. "Michael Westen."

She twirled some spaghetti noodles around her fork—a trick I had given up on mastering a long time ago—and asked, "Oh? Oleg said I would probably run into him sooner or later, but not much else. What's he like?"

I thought for a moment before shrugging. It's the response all teenagers fall back on when we can't think of anything to say. "His car is pretty cool. It's black with white seats and stuff, one of those old cars from the 1960s or 1970s, I guess. It looks it came right out of the movie _Gone In Sixty Seconds_ or something."

Mom looked amused and pointed out, "Sadly, you've told me more about the neighbor's car than you have about him. He must have been pretty unremarkable."

My shoulder lifted a second time and my nose wrinkled as I remembered how he'd been dressed, with that horribly green shirt and gold jewelry. "No, he was like the opposite of that. So awful he's hard to describe, you know?" I explained, gesturing with my fork.

Her gaze sharpened with worry and I could tell right away that I'd somehow set off all her overprotective instincts with my description. "Awful? Awful how? Like creepy? Roxanne, honey, did he scare you?" she demanded, putting down her fork.

I immediately rolled my eyes, shaking my head. "No, he didn't scare me." And he hadn't. Well, his clothing was kind of scary, but the man himself seemed pretty harmless—which made Oleg's words regarding him seem all the more strange. "He wasn't creepy at all. He didn't ask me to come see a puppy he had, or to sit in his lap, or anything else you've warned me to look out for. He just seemed weird. Very weird, but totally not creepy, if that makes sense."

Mom arched her eyebrows upwards and repeated, "Weird, but not creepy. Hm, well I am not even sure how that's possible, but if you're sure…"

"I'm sure," I stated firmly. "He was dressed strange, that's for sure. Kind of like…" I floundered, trying to think of someone to compare him with. It took me a moment to remember the only other time I'd ever seen wearing a shirt like that. "He was kind of dressed like Elvis was, in that movie you made me watch a couple of weeks ago. Against my will, I might add…"

"Hey, that movie is a classic!" Mom protested. "I watched it with your grandma when I was your age."

I shuddered, "My point exactly. I can't believe you liked that movie. I may only be fourteen but I know bad acting when I see it. Anyway, he was dressed in a bright green shirt with his shirt collar all turned up like Elvis. Only add in gold jewelry—not as much a rap star though. He said they were his 'work clothes'," I told her, raising my hands to throw in some air quotes for added emphasis.

That earned me a look of pure disbelief. "Dressed like Elvis, only with gold jewelry. Yes, that sounds pretty weird all right. And you didn't find this creepy? Because honestly, I'm kind of freaked out just from your description."

"Mo-om," I sighed, rolling my eyes again. "He just has super bad taste, I guess." I decided to toss in a little more reassurance, so she didn't go all protective on me again, "Anyway, Oleg was right there the whole time and he didn't seem too worried." It was only a slight exaggeration.

"Well, even so, I want you to be careful, especially since I'm not going to be here most of the day tomorrow. I need to go by the university library before my shift starts at two pm, which means I won't be home from around noon until ten thirty. I don't want you going outside when I'm not here."

I straightened in my chair, dismayed. "Wait, I can't go at all? I have to be cooped up in this tiny apartment every single time you go to work? You never had a rule like that at our old apartment!" It wasn't even like I had anything I even wanted to do outside, but even so, not even having the option to go outside was like being grounded for no reason.

Frowning, she said, "Our old apartment wasn't next door to a nightclub either. Look, Roxanne, if you go anywhere near that club when it's open, you could get Oleg in a lot of trouble. The police might think he was serving alcohol to minors—that could get his club shut down completely, not to mention the fines he'd have to pay."

That did sound pretty serious, but I still couldn't help whining about it some more. "Come on, Mom, at least let me go outside to the courtyard if I want to. I promise I won't get anywhere near the gate. Pleeease," I wheedled.

She was quiet for so long I was sure she was going to say no, but finally she relented, giving me a hard glare. "All right, you can go out to the courtyard during the afternoon if you want. But once it gets dark and the club opens, you come inside, lock the door behind you, and you stay inside, do I make myself clear?"

It was better than nothing, and I nodded agreement with a broad grin. "Inescapably."

The corners of her lips twitched, but her expression was still stern. "And Roxanne, you're not allowed to go further than that gate under any circumstances. Now, you know how they are at work about employees using cell phones on the clock but I'll still call and check up on you when I go on break, okay?"

"Yep," I said and focused on finishing the rest of my dinner.

It took me forever to fall asleep that night between the night club's music and sleeping in a new place. Every time the booming bass was on the verge of lulling me to sleep, the beat would change just enough to wake me back up again. The last time I remember seeing the time it was nearly four am, and even though it was ten when Mom woke me up, I felt like I'd just closed my eyes a few minutes earlier.

By the time I showered, got my clothes on, and ate something, Mom was already getting ready to leave for the afternoon. "Don't forget what I said. No going past the gate, no going out after dark. Keep the door locked when you're inside. And if I call, you'd better answer before it goes to voicemail," she said in a stern voice.

I was sitting on the couch flipping through television channels with the remote. There wasn't anything worth watching, especially since we didn't have cable or satellite service. "Got it, no going past the gate, out after dark, lock the door, answer the phone on the first ring," I answered through a yawn that was as much from boredom as from still being tired.

"Oh, and I ran into our neighbor this morning," Mom said, her light brown hair covering her face as she rooted through her purse for something.

"Did you? So you see what I mean about him being kind of strange?" I asked with a grin, straightening up on the couch to look over at her.

She ran a tube of gloss over her lips and shook her head, "Not at all. In fact, he seemed very professional to me. Polite. Friendly. He was wearing a linen suit and didn't look like Elvis in the slightest—I wasn't sure if I should be relieved or disappointed," she teased, giving me a sidelong look.

That didn't sound like the same guy at all. "You sure we're talking about the same person?"

Mom shrugged, "I'd left some mail in the car and on my way back, he was coming down the stairs from the loft up there. He introduced himself as Michael Westen and we chatted for a few minutes. That's what you said his name was, isn't it?"

"Yes… well he did say those ugly clothes he had on were his work clothes," I said dubiously. "Maybe that's why he looked so different."

"Honey, with the economy sinking like the _Titanic_, I think people take whatever job they can get." She made a face and picked up her orange Home Depot vest, waving it at me. In the space of two years she'd gone from being married with Graduate Teaching Assistant job at Florida International University to being divorced with a job at a home improvement store. Bad didn't even begin to describe our luck since Dad had left us.

I went back to channel surfing, and Mom zipped her purse back up. "Well I think that's everything. I'll talk to you in a couple of hours. If there's an emergency, call the store directly, ok? Love you, sweetie."

"Love you too. Have a good day at work."

One of the things I always like doing after moving into a new place and getting settled in is going through the entire place and seeing if the previous owner has left anything behind. I guess it's kind of the same thing other people do when they stay in hotel rooms, from what I've heard. Anyway, it wasn't every day you found out your new apartment used to belong to a drug dealer. I checked out all the cupboards and closets, but it was pretty well emptied out, other than some old bottles of cleaning supplies and drain cleaner. There was a large spot on the bedroom wall that had been plastered over and painted a different shade than the area around it. I went and inspected the opposite side to see if the damage had gone clear through, but the aluminum siding was undented and the same shade of water and rust stained white as the rest.

I explored outside as well—as much as I could without breaking Mom's rules, that is. There was another door that opened into the courtyard, but it seemed to be a storage room for the club and was padlocked shut. Metal stairs led up to our neighbor's apartment, but I discovered that if I kept climbing them, they went all the way up to the roof of the building. I only went up there long enough to peek around before coming back downstairs because it was way higher up than I expected it to be and the roof didn't have any rails at all, so it was kind of scary. Mr. Westen must not have been home, or didn't care that I was walking up and down the stairs right outside his door, because he didn't open it to see what I was doing.

I was trying to muster up my courage to return to the roof but ended up going back inside, carefully locking the door behind me, when a ten-minute thunderstorm moved through. The sun came right back out from behind the clouds when the rain stopped, but then it felt so hot and muggy that I could almost see the ground steaming, so I stayed inside.

Of course, Mom called just like she said she would, but since she was on break we didn't talk for very long. She asked what I'd been doing to keep myself occupied, and I answered the same way I usually do. "Nothing." Satisfied that everything seemed normal, she told me she loved me and that was that.

Oleg's club had free wireless, so I caught up with some friends on Facebook and made fun of them for playing Farmville. Dakota, my best friend (largely because of a friendly disagreement over who had been tagged with the worst name) called and we talked for an hour about my moving, her boyfriend Justin, and the good and bad aspects of starting 9th grade at a brand new school before her mom made her hang up.

I ate some leftover spaghetti for supper and had just dried and put away the dishes when I heard the first bass beats coming from the club. It was just after seven, and I guess the 360 Warehouse had just opened its doors for the night. I tried watching TV but it was hard to hear anything over the music, so I gave up on that. Mom called for the third time and I chatted with her for a few minutes before she had to go back to work.

Frustrated by not being able to hear anything other than a thumping beat, I tried opening the front door. That actually made things better, because at least now I could hear the words to go with the music. I leaned against the door to prop it open, listening to the music for a few minutes. Even though it wasn't the kind of music I usually listened to, I recognized a couple of the songs. It was dark, but since I wasn't actually outside, I figured it didn't really break any rules.

The gate was closed like usual, but there was a hole in the gate's sheet metal by the handle. I could just barely see people moving on the other side and hear muffled voices, and after ten or fifteen minutes of watching and wondering, I couldn't resist it any longer. I went outside and made my way across the courtyard to peep through the gap. I'd only be outside for a couple of minutes max, and Mom would never find out.

The line going into the club ran past the gate and courtyard fence so there were people literally right in front of my nose—which was at elbow level for most of them. There were velvet movie ropes to keep people in line and divided from the valet area where the new arrivals were pulling up. To my right, a big man with an earpiece was standing at the front near the entrance, checking IDs before letting people go in.

Most of the men were dressed pretty much alike, in jeans with t-shirts and tank tops in every color of the rainbow, except mile-marker green of course. The women's clothing was a lot more varied. Some wore jeans and tight-fitting shirts that showed their navel piercings, and others wore slinky dresses that hung off of one shoulder and barely covered their rear end.

Someone leaned against the fence and the metal creaked loudly, causing me to gasp with surprise. A man cursed and a couple of women giggled, and I knew I'd been out here long enough.

I hurried back to the apartment and saw that while I was goggling at the club goers, the heavy door had swung shut behind me. I turned the doorknob to go back inside, but it was locked. "Shit," I whispered. I turned it again. Still locked. "Shit shit shit shit shit…" I tried jiggling it, shaking it, pushing against the door with all my might, but it was no use. I was stuck outside. I had no spare key, because Mom was supposed to make one for me tonight while she was at work. And to make matters worse, I couldn't call her, even if I'd wanted to, because I'd left my cell phone sitting on the kitchen table from when she'd called earlier.

"Shit!" I cursed, kicking the heavy metal door in frustration then yelped as it sent a jolt of pure agony right up my leg. It hurt so bad I had to prop myself up against the door before I fell down. Hot tears stung my eyes and it was a few moments before the pain in my foot had faded enough for me to hobble over and collapse in one of the wicker chairs beneath the stairs.

So there I sat, and it was starting to sink in now that Mom was going to come home and find out I'd disobeyed her. I was going to be grounded for the rest of my life, if she didn't kill me first. Plus, it didn't take long for me to realize that being stuck outside my old apartment was nothing like being stuck out here. At our old place, I would have at least been inside a building, and could have gone up a couple of floors to wait at a friend's place. It was a lot lonelier out here and a lot darker. A reddish orange glow came from the club, and there was a dimly lit bulb shining down on the pavement just in front of the stairs to my neighbor's, but the rest of the small courtyard was cast in shadow.

360 Warehouse was starting to pick up, judging from the garbled chatter of people, and hearing the occasional rattle of the aluminum fence, I couldn't help but wonder what if someone came through the gate. There was no reason they would need to, but even so, being alone and stuck outside, I couldn't help but wonder what I'd do if they did. I considered moving the chair more into the light, but after thinking about it for a few moments, I decided to stay right where I was, where hopefully, no one could see me.

An hour later, I was still stuck outside curled up in the chair, feeling pretty sorry for myself, though somehow I'd managed to swallow down the tears I could feel welling up in my throat every now and again. I had a pounding headache from the loud music. My toe had quit hurting at least. For future reference, sneakers don't offer much protection when trying to kick doors.

The fence gate swung open and I froze as a petite and attractive woman in a short-sleeved babydoll dress and wedge heels walked through. Her dark brown hair was pinned up in a loose but elegant bun. "If you'd just let me take care of his car like I wanted to, he wouldn't know who you are," she said over her shoulder to her companion, who turned out to be none other than my upstairs neighbor, Michael Westen. Mom was right. Wearing a pale grey suit jacket and matching slacks, he looked nothing like he had yesterday and seemed very respectable.

He sighed, closing the gate, "Well that would have been a bit more collateral damage than I'm willing to put up with tonight, especially after what happened yesterday."

The woman smiled at that. "Awww, your mom is still mad?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said firmly, then added, "And besides, he still doesn't know who I am, he only knows that I'm not who I said I was." He brushed past her to start up the stairs, looking forward as he did. For an instant it seemed as though he looked right at me through the opening between the metal steps, but I guess he didn't see me because his expression never changed.

She sniffed in response and followed him up the stairs, "Well I hope Sam's buddies get a line on him fast, because I'm looking forward to having a nice long chat with Evan. I plan on bringing along my M nineteen eleven and…"

Westen interrupted her before she could say anything more. "Fi."

"Michael, did you see the size of the scratch he left on my car? He'll be lucky that I'm not bringing a claw hammer or a brick of…"

"Fi!" he cut in again. "Let's talk about this later."

They were directly above me on the steel landing right in front of his door, and I couldn't see either of them. A few moments passed but I didn't hear the door open, so I guess they were just standing there. Maybe they were making out?

Maybe not. They both descended the stairs again, much slower than they had gone up them. When he reached the next to last step, Michael Westen turned around and looked right at me again through the riser opening. "Hello." The woman didn't say anything, but wiggled her fingers at me with a smile.

"Hello," I replied back, in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

His eyes flickered around the courtyard before returning to study me, taking in my position in the wicker chair, with my arms wrapped around my knees. A sudden tension stiffened his shoulders and he asked with genuine concern, "Is everything all right?"

I swallowed hard, that lump in my throat all but choking me with its size. "No," I managed to say before I burst out crying.

The expression of shock and dismay on his face might have been funny under different circumstances. "Fi…" he said with something like desperation, and she hurried past him down the stairs and around to me. Once she got there though, she stood there like she didn't have any better idea what to do to comfort me than he did and resorted to patting me awkwardly on the shoulder as she took my hand.

It wasn't much, but it did help. A minute or two later, I'd recovered enough to mumble an embarrassed, "Sorry," as I wiped my face.

"It's quite all right," the woman said with a smile, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it.

Michael just seemed relieved that the waterworks were over, though he seemed no less tense and concerned. "Can you tell us what happened?" he asked.

Sniffling, I stared down at my fingers and said, "I locked myself out."

Neither of them said anything, and when I looked up they were both looking at me. He tilted his head, gesturing with one hand, and said, "And….?" expectantly, as though waiting for the rest of the story.

I flushed. "And…. Nothing. That's it. I locked myself out."

"You locked yourself out," he repeated. "That's all?" At my nod, the tension seemed to drain right out of him, and he sighed, looking at the woman beside me.

She seemed to relax a bit as well. "How long have you been locked out?" she asked curiously and then shook her head, "Oh how rude of me. We haven't even been properly introduced. I'm Fiona."

"Nice to meet you, Fiona," I said, ducking my head shyly. "I'm Roxanne," I responded, and waited for the inevitable mention of the song by the Police. I hate that song.

To my surprise, she smiled, "From the play _Cyrano De Bergerac_? That's one of my favorites." Westen did a visible double take at that, as though she'd said something completely unexpected and seeing that, Fiona raised an eyebrow. "What? Mother made us go see it. She said we 'needed more culture'."

His lips twitched with amusement and he turned back to me. "Did you want to use my phone to call your mom?"

"I guess," I said, then thought about that for a moment before shaking my head. "On second thought, no thanks, Mr. Westen. What time is it anyway?"

My neighbor got a strange look on his face at the title and smiled, correcting, "Just Michael." He glanced at his watch, "Nine-thirty."

"So I've got about an hour before Mom gets home and I'm grounded for the rest of my natural life," I said morosely. "Or I could call her so she comes home even earlier, and I get punished even sooner. I am not supposed to be out after dark," I explained at the inquiring looks they gave me, "And when she comes home and finds I'm outside, I'm probably going to be grounded for, well, forever."

"Grounded forever. We can't have that, now can we?" Fiona said. She quirked her eyebrows at Michael and turned to walk toward my apartment door.

He frowned and said in a low, warning tone, "Fi…."

"What, Michael?" she returned, reaching up with her hands to let her hair down. "It will only take a moment to open the door to her apartment." Then she smiled brightly at him and suggested, "Or, she can come upstairs with us to the loft and wait with us there until her mother gets home."

"Um, guys, the door is locked," I reminded them. "I checked it about ten times."

Neither of them even bothered sparing a glance at me. Finally he looked skyward, gave a longsuffering sigh and said, "Fine."

Fiona gestured at me, saying, "Come here, Roxanne. I want to show you what I'm doing." So I got to my feet and followed her over to my door.

Michael joined us. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

"Nonsense," the woman waved her hand dismissively. "A smart girl has to have a few tricks up her sleeve, and as far as survival skills go, this is one of the best." She tried turning the doorknob, but it just rattled.

"See? Told you it was locked."

She held up a small piece of metal, "Well then, it's a good thing I brought along a key."

I stared at her. "That's a bobby pin." Seriously? She was going to pick the lock with a bobby pin? That only happened in movies.

"Is it?" she asked, arching an eyebrow at me. "I find a bobby pin to be quite versatile, when you get down to it." Fiona bent down, peered at the doorknob then turned to look up at Michael with disbelief. "Sugar spent hundreds of dollars making the front door bulletproof but didn't want to spare any money for a decent lock? This isn't even a challenge!"

"Sugar?" I repeated, and then realized who she probably meant. "Is that the drug dealer that used to live here?"

Turning back to the door to insert the pin into the lock, Fiona commented, "Honestly, I have to admit I'm rather surprised he's not still walking with a limp after what you did to him, Michael."

It took a moment for me to put two and two together, and I turned to look up at the man standing beside me in astonishment. "Wait, Oleg said he was persuaded to leave—that was you?"

He gave me a bland smile and said, "I convinced him that it was in his best interest to move his business elsewhere."

Fiona laughed at that, remarking, "Michael can be quite persuasive when he puts his mind to it." She leaned toward me to confide in a loud whisper, "He used to be a spy." Then she gave me a big wink to let me know she was just kidding.

I burst out with giggles at that crazy notion, and he shot her a quick and irritated glare before chuckling as well. "You about finished?" he asked her, a broad amused grin still on his face.

She straightened and turned the knob in answer, and to my surprise, the door swung open.

"How did you do that?" I asked in amazement.

Waving the bobby pin in front of my nose, she locked the door again, pulled it to, and demonstrated. "You slide it in like so, and then use the edge of the metal to move the pins or wafers that coincide to the shape of the key to the right places that unlock it. Then you just turn it like it's a key. See?" She turned the handle again to open the door, and then gave the pin to me to try for myself. It took a lot longer, but with her gentle advice and occasional corrections, after a few minutes I heard the quiet 'click' of the door unlocking and opened it in triumph.

"Wow, that's totally awesome!" I said, beaming at her. "Thank you so much!"

"You're quite welcome, Roxanne. Just remember, practice makes perfect," she gave me a warm smile.

Michael, who had been watching us in silence, gestured over his shoulder, "Since you two seem to have things under control, Fi, I'm going to call Sam and see if he's got any news. Goodnight Roxanne." Without waiting for a response, he started back for his apartment.

"Goodnight, and thanks!" I called to him, and he lifted his hand in a quick wave before trotting up the stairs. My nosey nature got the better of me, and I wondered, "So is he your boyfriend?"

Fiona gave a quick shake of her head, still smiling. "Not today, no."

What a strange answer! I had no idea what to say to that, so I tried to give her the bobby pin back, but she wouldn't take it. "Keep it. I always keep a few on me, just in case of an emergency."

Staring at the tiny piece of metal, I tried to think of where I could put it where I'd always have it handy. After a moment, I bent down and tucked it into the top of my shoe, right along side my laces. These were my favorite shoes and I rarely left the house without them on. Fiona nodded with approval, and looked past me into the sparsely decorated apartment.

"So is it just you and your mother then?" she asked.

"Yeah, since Dad left." I suddenly remembered my manners and asked, "Did you want to come in for a minute? Maybe have some water?" Mom probably wouldn't have approved of me inviting anyone inside, but I wouldn't even be inside if it hadn't been for her, so I was willing to make an exception.

"Do you get to see him very often? Oh, yes, some water sounds delightful," Fiona replied, and followed me inside.

I paused at the kitchen table to pick up my cell phone and sighed with relief when I saw the screen—no missed calls from Mom or anyone else, thank God. "Not really," I said, making a face as I got her a clean glass out of the dish drain. I poured her some cold water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and offered it to her. "I saw him on my birthday back in April. He gave me a laptop." It was a nice computer, really, but the gift itself had really seemed like an afterthought when he gave it to me. The expression of relief on his face when Mom had come to pick me up hadn't helped that.

She sipped at the water and commented casually, "He must live pretty far away, if you don't get to see him for months at a time."

I made a rude sound, "Yeah, right. Fort Lauderdale is sooo far away from here." It was a few miles north of Miami. A few years ago, my father had been hit with a restless streak that resulted in us moving nearly every single year, all over Dade and Broward County. Before each move, he'd say, "It's a new start, so we start all over, and get a fresh perspective on things." And he made good money as an air traffic controller at Miami International Airport, so the houses were nice, in good neighborhoods.

But eventually, I guess he decided that starting over meant starting over as a single man without a wife and kid dragging him down. He didn't even care enough about either of us to make his child support payments on time. Mom tried to keep it a secret from me, but I still knew, from the way her savings had dwindled down to nothing after she lost her job. "He doesn't care about us anymore, either of us," I said bitterly. "If he did, do you think we'd be living here?"

Fiona seemed chagrined and apologized, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories."

I sighed, mustering a wry grin. "It's all right. It's not like you knew. 'Divorce is hard on kids', that's what everyone tells me. I'm so sick of hearing people say that." It occurred to me that I was venting to someone I'd only met a short while ago, and I reddened with embarrassment. "No, I'm the one who's sorry. I didn't mean to go off like that. Being cooped up by myself all day, and then getting locked out side, I think it's made me go a little bit crazy. Seriously, I can't thank you enough for helping me get back inside, especially since it means I won't be grounded for all of eternity."

"You're welcome," she said, setting the glass down with a smile. "Well, thank you for the water, but I should be leaving. I come over to Michael's quite often, so I'm sure we'll run into each other again soon or later," she told me as she walked over to let herself out. "Goodnight, Roxanne."

"'Night, Fiona," I responded and added, "and thanks for the lesson in lockpicking."

She gave a bright and cheerful laugh, "Anytime!" and checked to make sure the door was locked before pulling it shut behind her.

I went back to watching TV and seriously debated telling Mom what had happened, but by the time she arrived home forty-five minutes later, I had decided against it. I really didn't want to get grounded, and explaining that I got back inside by the neighbor's not-girlfriend showing me how to pick the lock in the door would definitely result in more trouble than it was worth.

"Oh, look what I brought you!" Mom waved a silver key and brought it over to me. "Now we don't have to worry about you accidentally getting locked out."

I couldn't help laughing at that as I took the key, rubbing my finger over the newly cut edges, and then pulled the bobby pin Fiona had given me from between my shoe laces to hold close for comparison. "Yep, one less thing to worry about," I agreed, and returned the pin to its new home on my shoe.


End file.
